It is not that I love you less
Than when before your feet I lay:
But to prevent the sad increase
Of hopeless love, I keep away

In vain! (alas!) for ev'ry thing
Which I have known belong to you
Your form does to my fancy bring
And makes my old wounds bleed anew

Who in the Spring from the new Sun
Already has a fever got
Too late begins those shafts to shun
Which Phoebus through his veins has shot

Too late he would the pain assuage
And to shadows thick he doth retire;
About with him he bears the pain
And in his tainted blood the fire
Absence is vain for ev'ry thing
That I have known belong to you
Your form does to my fancy bring
And makes my old wounds bleed anew

But vow'd I have, and never must
Your banish'd servant trouble you;
For if I break, you may mistrust
The vow I made to love you, too